The swineherd was in the process of feeding his charges when he heard the approach of the two knights. Dropping the leather swill bucket he held, he backed up a few paces in alarm and Bascot quickly put his finger to his lips to ensure quietness and then beckoned the swineherd to come forward. The pig man, a stoop-shouldered individual of about fifty years of age, and wearing clothes that were smeared with pig muck, crept hesitantly to where Bascot and Emilius stood.
“Is there anyone in the main building?” Bascot asked in low tones.
The swineherd nodded. “Master Savaric came yesterday. He must still be in there, sleepin’.”
“No one else?” Bascot pressed.
The pig man nervously shrugged his shoulders. “Not so’s I seen, but I goes to bed early, ’cause I’ve got to be up at dawn to feed the swine. Someone could ’ave come after that, I suppose, but if they did, I never heard ’em.”
“Is there a back entrance to the building?”
“Aye, lord, it goes to the privy, but ’tis usually barred. Until Master Savaric needs to use it, it’ll most like stay that way.”
“Do you ever have occasion to go inside the house?”
An expression of shock crossed the swineherd’s dirty face and he grimaced, revealing a mouth that held only one or two snaggled teeth. “Me, lord? I’se been told not to go near there and whatever I’se told to do, I do. Be more than my job is worth to do aught else.”
Bascot nodded and told the swineherd to put some distance between himself and the main building. The pig man needed no other direction. Without a sound he sped off into the woods and did not look back.
Bascot and Emilius scrutinised the building that stood a few score yards from the sty. It was, as the bailiff had said, in need of repair. The walls were sturdy enough, made of stout timber, but the tiles on the roof were old and some missing in places. There were two casement windows at the front, one on either side of the door, and both had shutters firmly secured in place. A small wing was attached to the western side of the building, probably once intended as sleeping quarters for guests. It appeared to have been, in years past, a substantial, if modest, property and the size and plumpness of the pigs in the sty suggested that they still provided a lucrative source of income.
“I will circle around the back, Emilius, and make sure the door is closed,” Bascot said quietly to his companion. “Watch for any signs of movement until I return.”
Emilius gave a quick nod of his head and crouched down beside the sty, wrinkling his nose at the malodorous smell as he did so. The pigs grunted curiously at his approach but were too interested in feeding on the mash the swineherd had brought to give him more than cursory attention.
Bascot stole along the edge of the sty and moved quickly around some small outbuildings that stood near the edge of the trees. One of them, he guessed, was the hut where the swineherd lived, for the clumsily nailed planks that formed a shield for the door stood ajar and he could see a cracked wooden plate and mug set on a roughly hewn table inside. Moving along the back of a small woodshed next door to the hut, Bascot had a good view of the rear of the main building. As the swineherd had said, there was only one door, a small one leading to a privy a few feet away. As far as he could see, the door appeared to be firmly closed. From the shelter of an open-sided stable on the other side of the main building, the whicker of a horse sounded softly.
He went back to where Emilius waited. “It does not appear that anyone is astir inside. The front entrance is probably barred as well, but the door does not look as though it is a sturdy one. Be prepared to put your shoulder to it, if needs be.”
The two Templars walked up to the entrance, watching for any movement at the casements. Pushing against the main door, Bascot was surprised to find it unlocked and swung open under a gentle pressure from his hand. The movement of the door prompted a sudden rustling from inside and Bascot drew his sword while Emilius took a firm grip on the mace he carried as they stepped inside.
The room seemed dark after the brightness of the daylight outside and the figure that rose from a pallet on the floor on the other side of the room was at first indistinct. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they saw in the illumination of a small taper alongside the pallet that the person they had disturbed was Savaric. He was in the act of getting dressed and was about to pull on his boots.
“Sir Bascot!” the baseborn Roulan brother said, his impassive features registering surprise. “What do you here?”
“We have come to take Jacques into custody,” Bascot replied. “We know he is the one who murdered the harlots.”
Savaric faltered for a moment, and then set his mouth in the stern lines that Bascot remembered from his visit to Ingham. “As I told you, my half brother is dead. Your purpose here is pointless.”
“A leper may be considered dead to society, but is not truly so until he has been buried,” Bascot replied sternly. “Where is he?”
Savaric reeled back a step and glanced at the short sword that lay in its sheath beside his bed.
“Do not be foolish,” Bascot warned. “You and the rest of your family can no longer protect him. He must answer for his crimes.”
“It is not his fault,” Savaric protested. “His brain-it has been turned by the disease. He does not know…”
His words were cut off as the inner door that led to the wing on the end of the building crashed open. Through it leapt a figure swinging a double-headed flail. So abrupt was his entrance that all of them were caught off guard. Emilius was nearest and, as he turned and raised his mace in a defensive movement, the chain of the flail caught the draper about the head, one of the wickedly spiked balls smashing into his cheek, the other catching him in the neck, just above the rim of the leather gambeson he wore. Blood spurted like water from a geyser and he dropped to his knees. His attacker pulled the flail free and charged at Bascot, swinging the weapon over his head.
“Filthy whoremongers!” he yelled. “You don’t deserve to live!”
Bascot leapt to the side, bringing up his sword and dodging out of the way of the needle-sharp spikes. There could be no doubt that this was Jacques Roulan. Although his eyes were wild and staring above his unkempt beard, he had the same beaklike nose that the Templar had seen on Gilbert and Herve’s visages. Bascot’s glance flicked to the handle of the flail, which Jacques was gripping with both hands. He must have chosen the weapon because it was easier to control with fingers that had lost the sense of feeling. But it was just as deadly an instrument as a sword, especially in the hands of a man who had been trained to its use, as Jacques would have been.
As Jacques’ wild charge carried him past, Bascot noticed a rough bandage wrapped about the thigh of the leper’s right leg and guessed that this was where Terese had stabbed him with her knife. The Templar aimed his sword at the same spot and felt the blade bite into muscle just above the strips of linen. The Templar did not want to kill the diseased man if he could help it; if at all possible, he should be taken into custody alive and pay the ultimate penalty of being hanged for his crimes.
Jacques stumbled on his injured leg and blood poured from the fresh wound. Bascot glanced in Savaric’s direction to see if he intended to come to his half brother’s aid, but the former squire was kneeling on the floor by Emilius, trying to bind the draper’s terrible injury with a piece of old blanket.
Once again, Jacques charged at Bascot, and even though his gait was lopsided still managed to land a blow on the circular helm the Templar wore, causing sparks to fly. Only the nasal bar stopped it from catching Bascot in the face. Without a shield, a double-headed flail was a difficult weapon to defend oneself against. The possible loss of the sight in his remaining eye lessened the Templar’s resolve to try and take Jacques alive. Even if it meant killing the leprous knight, he had to be disarmed.
Jacques spun around, using his sound leg as a pivot, and once again lifted the flail, swinging it above his head with furious intent. Stepping forward, Bascot thrust underneath the upraised arms, seeking the vulnerable point below the chest bone. The point of his sword struck true, plunging deep into vital organs and Jacques fell back onto the stone flags of the floor, the flail landing on the floor with a metallic clatter as it dropped from his hands.
Bascot picked the weapon up and, after ensuring that Jacques’ wound was severe enough to incapacitate him, ran to Emilius and dropped to his knees. Savaric, with a stifled sob, backed away from the stricken Templar and went to crouch beside his half brother. With one glance, Bascot realised that the draper’s wounds were mortal. The flesh of one cheek had been torn away and hung in a flap, the bone beneath it crushed. One of the spikes in the ball of the flail had sliced a deep gash across the side of Emilius’s throat, severing the main arteries. Blood from the wound had formed a large puddle on the floor beneath the draper, but the pulsating flow was ebbing as the life
